The Thousand Orcs th-1

by Robert Salvatore

  "It is difficult to discern," said the first. "Pikel's magic is … sporadic.”

  Tarathiel looked at him curiously.

  "He seems to throw it as he needs it," the other tried to explain. "Minor dweomers, mostly, though every now and again he seems possessed of a quite potent spell, one that would only be expected of a high-ranking druid, their equivalent of a high priest."

  "It seems almost as if he has caught the goddess's fancy," said the first. "As if Mielikki, or one of her minions, has taken a direct interest in him and is watching over him."

  Tarathiel paused a moment to digest the information, then said, "You still have not answered my question."

  "He is no more dangerous than his brother, certainly," the first replied. "Surely no threat to us or to the Moonwood."

  "You are certain?"

  "We are," answered the second.

  "Perhaps it is time for you to speak with the dwarves," Innovindil offered.

  Tarathiel paused again, thinking. "Do you think Sunrise will bear

  him?" he asked.

  "To Montolio's grove?"

  Tarathiel nodded. "Let us see if the image of Mielikki's symbol will look kindly upon this 'Doo-dad' dwarf."

  PART 3 WHERE ONE ROAD ENDS

  I have come to view my journey through life as the convergence of three roads. First is the simple physical path, through my training in House Do'Urden, to Melee-Magthere, the drow school for warriors, and my continued tutelage under my father, Zaknafein. It was he who prepared me for the challenges, he who taught me the movements to transcend the basics of the drow martial art, indeed to think creatively about any fight. Zaknafein's technique was more about training one's muscles to respond, quickly and in perfect harmony, to the calls of the mind, and even more importantly, the calls of the imagination.

  Improvisation, not rote responses, is what separates a warrior from a weapons master.

  The road of that physical journey out of Menzoberranzan, through the wilds of the Underdark, along the mountainous trails that led me to Montolio, and from there to Icewind Dale and the loved ones I now share, has intertwined often with the second road. They are inevitably linked.

  For the second road was the emotional path, the growth I have come to find in understanding and appreciation, not only of what I desire to be and to have, but of the needs of others, and the acceptance that their way of looking at the world may not coincide with my own. My second road started in confusion as the world of Menzoberranzan came clear to me and made little sense to my views. Again it was Zaknafein who crystallized the beginning steps of this road, as he showed me that there was indeed truth in that which I knew in my heart—but could not quite accept in my thoughts, perhaps—to be true. I credit Catti-brie, above all others, with furthering this journey. From the beginning, she knew to look past the reputation of my heritage and judge me for my actions and my heart, and that was such a freeing experience for me that I could not help but accept the philosophy and embrace it. In doing so I have come to appreciate so many people of various races and various cultures and various viewpoints. From each I learn, and in learning, with such an open mind, I grow.

  Now, after all these adventurous years, I have come to understand that there is indeed a third road. For a long time, I thought it an extension of the second, but now I view this path as independent. It is a subtle distinction, perhaps, but not so in importance.

  This third journey began the day I was born, as it does for all reasoning beings. It lay somewhat dormant for me for many years, buried beneath the demands of Menzoberranzan and my own innate understanding that the other two paths had to be sorted before the door to this third could truly open.

  I opened that door in the home of Montolio deBrouchee, in Mooshie's Grove, when I found Mielikki, when I discovered that which was in my heart and soul. That was the first step on the spiritual road, the path more of mystery than of experience, more of questions than of answers, more of faith and hope than of realization. It is the road that opens only when the needed steps have been taken along the other two. It is the path that requires the shortest steps, perhaps, but is surely the most difficult, at least at first. If the three paths are each divergent and many-forked at their beginning, and indeed, along the way—the physical is usually determined by need, the emotional by want, the spiritual—?

  It is not so clear a way, and I fear that for many it never becomes so.

  For myself, I know that I am on the right path, but not because I have yet found the answers. I know my way is true because I have found the questions, specifically how, why, and where.

  How did I, did anyone, get here? Was it by a course of natural occurrences, or the designs of a creator or creators, or are they indeed one and the same?

  In either case, why am I here? Is there indeed even a reason, or is it all pure chance and randomness?

  And perhaps the most important question to any reasoning being, where will my journey take me when I have shrugged off this mortal coil?

  I view this last and most important road as ultimately private. These are questions that cannot be answered to me by anyone other than me. I see many people, most people, finding their «answers» in the sermons of others. Words sanctified by age or the perceivedwisdom of authors who provide a comfortable ending to their spiritual journey, provide answers to truly troubling questions. No, not an ending, but a pause, awaiting the resumption once this present experience of life as we know it ends.

  Perhaps I am being unfair to the various flocks. Perhaps many within have asked themselves the questions and have found their personal answers, then found those of similar ilk with whom to share their revelations and comfort. If that is the case, if it is not a matter of simple indoctrination, then I envy and admire those who have advanced along their spiritual road farther than I.

  For myself, I have found Mielikki, though I still have no definitive manifestation of that name in mind. And far from a pause or the ending of my journey, my discovery of Mielikki has only given me the direction I needed to ask those questions of myself in the first place. Mielikki provides me comfort, but the answers, ultimately, come from within, from that part of myself that I feel akin to the tenets of Mielikki as Montolio described them to me.

  The greatest epiphany of my life came along this last and most important road: the understanding that all the rest of it, emotional and physical—and material—is naught but a platform. All of our accomplishments in the external are diminished many times over if they do not serve to turn us inward. There and only there lies our meaning, and in truth, part of the answer to the three questions is the understanding to ask them in the first place, and more than that, to recognize their penultimate importance in the course of reason.

  The guiding signs of the spiritual journey will rarely be obvious, I believe, for the specific questions found along the road are often changing, and sometimes seemingly unanswerable. Even now, when all seems aright, I am faced with the puzzle of Ellifain and the sadness of that loss. And though I feel as if I am on the greatest adventure of my life with Catti-brie, there are many questions that remain with me concerning our relationship. I try to live in the here and now with her, yet at some point she and I will have to look longer down our shared path. And both of us, I think, fear what we see.

  I have to hold faith that things will clarify, that I will find the answers I need.

  I have always loved the dawn. I still sit and watch every one, if my situation permits. The sun stings my eyes less now, and less with each rising, and perhaps that is some signal that it, as a representation of the spiritual, has begun to flow more deeply into my heart, my soul, and my understanding of it all.

  That, of course, is ray hope.

  — Drizzt Do'Urden

  CHAPTER 15 INTOLERANCE

  "Ye're really meaning to do this?" Shingles asked Torgar when he found his friend, fresh off his watch, at his modest home in the Mirabar Undercity, stuffing his most important belongings into a large sack.
/>   "Ye knowed I was."

  "I knowed ye was talking about it," Shingles corrected. "Didn't think yer brain was rattled enough for ye to actually be doin' it."

  "Bah!" Torgar snorted, coming up from his packing to look his friend in the eye. "What choice are they leavin' to me? Agrathan comin' to me on the wall just to tell me to shut me mouth. . Shut me mouth! I been fightin for the marchion, for Mirabar, for three hunnerd years. I got more scars than Agrathan, Elastul, and all four of his private guards put together. Earned every one o' them scars, I did, and now I'm to stand quiet and hear the scolding of Agrathan, and that on me watch, with th' other sentries all lookin' and listenin'?"

  "And where're ye to go?" Shingles asked. "Mithral Hall?" "Yep."

  "Where ye'll be welcomed with a big hug and a bottle o' ale?" came the sarcastic reply.

  "King Bruenor's not me enemy."

  "And not near the friend ye're thinkin'," Shingles argued. "He's to be wonderin' what bringed ye there, and he'll think ye a spy."

  It was a logical argument, but Torgar was shaking his head with every word. Even if Shingles proved right on this point, the potential consequences still seemed preferable to Torgar than his present intolerable situation. He was getting up in years and remained the last of the Hammerstriker line, a situation he was hoping to soon enough correct. Given all that he had learned over the last few tendays of King Bruenor, and more importantly, of his own beloved Mirabar, he was thinking that any children he might sire would be better served growing up among Clan Battlehammer.

  Perhaps it would take Torgar months, even years, to win the confidence of Bruenor's people, but so be it.

  He stuffed the last of his items into the sack and hoisted the bulging bag over his shoulder, turning for the door. To his surprise. Shingles presented him a mug of ale, then held up his own in toast.

  'To a road full o' monsters ye can kill!" the older dwarf said.

  Torgar banged his mug against the other.

  "I'll be clearing it for yerself," he remarked.

  Shingles gave a little laugh and took a deep drink.

  Torgar knew that his response to the toast was purely polite. Shingles's situation in Mirabar was very different than his own. The old dwarf was the patriarch of a large clan. Uprooting them for a journey to Mithral Hall would be no easy task.

  "Ye're to be missed, Torgar Hammerstriker," the old dwarf replied. "And the potters and glass-blowers're sure to be losin' business, not having to replace all the jugs and mugs ye're breakin' in every tavern in town."

  Torgar laughed, took another sip, handed the mug back to Shingles, and continued for the door. He paused just once, to turn and offer his friend a look of sincere gratitude, and to drop his free hand on Shingles's shoulder in a sincere pat.

  He went out, drawing more than a few stares as he moved along the main thoroughfare of the Undercity, past dozens and dozens of dwarves. Hammers stopped ringing at the forges he passed. All the dwarves of Mirabar knew about Torgar's recent run-ins with the authorities, about the many fights, about his stubborn insistence that the visiting King Bruenor had been badly mistreated.

  To see him determinedly striding toward the ladders leading to the overcity with a huge sack on his back. .

  Torgar didn't turn to regard any of them. This was his choice and his journey. He hadn't asked anyone to join him, beyond his remark to Shingles a moment before, nor did he expect any overt support. He understood the magnitude of it all and quite clearly. Here he was, of a fine and reputable family who had served in Mirabar for centuries, walking away. No dwarf would undertake such an act lightly. To the bearded folk, the hearth and home were the cornerstone of their existence.

  By the time he reached the lifts, Torgar had several dwarves following him, Shingles included. He heard their whispers — some of support, some calling him crazy—but he did not respond in any way.

  When he reached the overcity, the late afternoon sun shining pale and thin, he found that word of his trek had apparently preceded him, for a substantial group had assembled, human and dwarf alike. They followed him toward the eastern gate with their eyes, if not their feet. Most of the remarks on the surface were less complimentary toward the wayward dwarf. Torgar heard the words «traitor» and «fool» more than a few times.

  He didn't react. He had expected and already gone through all of this in his thoughts before he had stuffed the first of his clothes into the sack.

  It didn't matter, he reminded himself, because once he crossed out the eastern gate, he'd likely never see or speak with any of these folks ever again.

  That thought nearly halted him in his walk.

  Nearly.

  The dwarf replayed his conversation with Agrathan over and over in his mind, using it to bolster his resolve, to remind himself that he was indeed doing the right thing, that he wasn't forsaking Mirabar so much as Mirabar, in mistreating King Bruenor, and in scolding any who dared befriend the visiting leader, had forsaken him. This was not the robust and proud city of his ancestors, Torgar had decided. This was not a city determined to lead through example. This was a city on the decline. One more determined to bring down their rivals through deceit and sabotage than to elevate themselves above those who would vie with them for markets

  Just before he reached the gate, where a pair of dwarf guards stood looking at him incredulously and a pair of human guards stood scowling at him, Torgar was hailed by a familiar voice.

  "Do not be doing this," Agrathan advised, running up beside the stern-faced dwarf.

  "Don't ye be tryin' to stop me."

  "There is more at stake here than one dwarf deciding to move," the councilor tried to explain. "Ye understand this, don't ye? Ye're knowing that all your kinfolk are watching ye and that your actions are starting dangerous whispering among our people?"

  Torgar stopped abruptly and turned his head toward the frantic Agrathan. He wanted to comment on the dwarf's accent, which was leaning more toward the human way of speaking than the dwarven. He found it curiously fitting that Agrathan, the liaison, the mediator, seemed to speak with two distinct voices.

  "Might be past time the dwarfs o' Mirabar started asking them questions ye're so fearin'."

  Agrathan shook his head doubtfully, gave a shrug and a resigned sigh.

  Torgar held the stare for a moment longer, then turned and stomped toward the door, not even pausing to consider the expressions of the four guards standing there, or the multitude of folks, human and dwarf alike, who were following him, the horde moving right up to the gate before stopping as one.

  One brave soul yelled out, "Moradin's blessings to ye, Torgar Hammers triker!"

  A few others yelled out less complimentary remarks.

  Torgar just kept walking, putting the setting sun at his back.

  "Predictable fool," Djaffar of the Hammers remarked to the soldiers beside him, all of them astride heavily armored warhorses.

  They sat behind the concealment of many strewn rocks on a high bluff to the northeast of Mirabar's eastern gate, from which a lone figure had emerged, walking proudly and determinedly down the road.

  Djaffar and his contingent weren't surprised. They had heard of the exodus only a few moments before Torgar had climbed the ladder out of the Undercity, but they had long-ago prepared for just such an eventuality. Thus, they had ridden out quietly through the north gate, while all eyes had been on the dwarf marching toward the eastern one. A roundabout route had brought them to this position to sit and wait.

  "If it were up to me, I'd kill him here on the road and let the vultures have his rotting flesh," Djaffar told the others. 'And good enough for the traitor! But Marchion Elastul's softer in the heart—his one true weakness—and so you understand your role here?"

  In response, three of the riders looked to the fourth, who held up a strong net.

  "You give him one chance to surrender. Only one," Djaffar explained.

  The four nodded their understanding.

  "When, Hammer Djaffar?" one of
them asked.

  "Patience," the seasoned leader counseled. "Let him get far from the gate, out of sight and out of their hearing. We have not come out here to start a riot, but only to prevent a traitor from bringing all of our secrets to our enemies."

  The grim faces looking back at Djaffar assured him that these hand-picked warriors understood their role, and the importance of it.

  They caught up to Torgar a short while later, with dusk settling thick about the land. The dwarf was sitting on a rock, rubbing his sore feet and shaking the stones out of his boots, when the four riders swiftly approached. He started to jump up, even reached for his great axe, but then, apparently recognizing the riders for who they were, he just sat back down and assumed a defiant pose.

  The four warriors charged up and encircled him, their trained mounts bristling with eagerness.

  A moment later, up rode Djaffar. Torgar gave a snort, seeming hardly surprised.

  'Torgar Hammerstriker," Djaffar announced. "By the edict of Marchion Elastul Raurym, I declare you expatriated from Mirabar."

  "Already done that meself," the dwarf replied.

  "It is your intention to continue along the eastern road to Mithral Hall and the court of King Bruenor Battlehammer?"

  "Well, I'm not for thinking that King Bruenor's got the time for seein' me, but if he asked, I'd be goin' to sec him, yes."

  It was all said so casually, so matter-of-factly, that the faces of the five men tightened with anger, which seemed to please Torgar all the more.

  "In that event, you are guilty of treason to the crown."

  "Treason?" Torgar huffed. "Ye're declarin' a war on Mithral Hall, are ye?"

  "They arc our known rivals."

  "That don't make me goin' there treason."

  "Espionage, then!" Djaffar yelled. "Surrender now!"

  Torgar studied him carefully for a moment, showing no emotion and no indication of what might happen next. He did glance over at his heavy axe, lying to the side.